Midnight

  Tuesday morning after Fajr prayer I was on the move. I had to do business errands before my 12:00 weapons training class.

  I flew through the dojo doors in a hurry. Sensei required all of his students to be on time. Once I got inside, the whole vibe switched up. Sensei’s energy was calming. I slowed my breathing and put my belongings in the locker. Sensei had tea brewing, which was unusual. He seemed to want to talk. After we exchanged greetings, he said, “Pour yourself some tea. Today we are going to begin by discussing vulnerabilities.”

  “The eyes, the larynx, the pelvis, the knees, the ankles,” I said, assuring him that I had studied and retained the information. There was no need for review.

  “Eedis,” he said, which is a Japanese word meaning very good.

  “But today we are not focusing on physical vulnerabilities. We are focusing on emotional vulnerabilities. Just as a ninja must know where on the body to attack, he must also learn when is the best time to attack his opponent to achieve complete success.”

  Sensei’s use of the word “success” triggered a thought in me about Fawzi.

  “Senseisan, one question, please,” I said, then continued. “We are here for weapons training. What would you say if another man said to you that he works for a military weapons company and that he has weapons, which could completely wipe out your entire existence as though you were never ever born? Would it make you feel like everything we are doing here is nothing?”

  “It would reinforce my understanding of Sun Tzu’s teaching. ‘War is deception.’ You see, an opponent who can attack your mind and disable your confidence and skill, has won before you have ever thrown one weapon, one kick, one fist. This person who flaunts his military superiority over you or your people, is trying to immerse you in fear. He knows, and they know, that fear will guarantee their success and your defeat. They will have conquered you in your mind first, to minimize their chances of losses on their end.”

  “And what if these deadly weapons they say they have are real?” I asked.

  “Most probably they are real. Men have devoted centuries’ worth of time to perfecting machines of destruction, bombs, missiles, even chemical warfare. Yet, even though some countries have these weapons, they have gone to war against people who have no fear of death, but have the spirit of determination, love of preserving their future, and the power of being on the right side of truth. When a mass of people has this, the training that I am offering you is the same training that they will need. If properly trained, people who seem to have no chance of victory can disarm their invaders, strip them of their weapons and use their own weapons against them. They can even set traps, use the elements to their advantage or appear to be passive while poisoning their opponents. For survival, they can do anything. This has happened before, in Vietnam and Korea and other places. Let me recommend a book to you.” He reached for his pad and pencil. He paused as if going back into his mind. He wrote down, Dien Bien Phu by General Giap.

  “In Vietnam and Korea a lot of good men were defeated too?” I supposed and asked at the same time, while looking at the title of the book Sensei had written down on the paper for me.

  “Yes, of course. In war there are always losses. The victor is the one who can cut his losses when compared to the losses of his enemy, and emerge with the possibility of rebuilding his team, or village, or civilization according to his beliefs, philosophies, culture, and interest,” Sensei stated.

  “A Buddhist friend of mine would ask, ‘What is death? If the idea survives, then the dead live.’ ” Sensei smiled a rare smile.

  I heard the voice of my father woven in those words somewhere. Although my father, the scientist, was even more specific and precise. But since Sensei’s words had components of what my father might say if he were standing right here, right now, I respected Sensei’s opinion.

  It seemed that our talk motivated Sensei. He went about the two-hour training with intense enthusiasm and care. I listened intently when he taught me the importance of knowing when to attack an opponent. He described a man’s emotional vulnerabilities as happiness, sadness, sexual arousal, and altered states of mind.

  Sensei said, “If an attack can be properly planned and launched when a man’s mind is altered by the emotion of happiness; for example, at the birth of his child or at the excitement of a sporting event, or at a party, he is an easy vulnerable target.”

  Sensei said, “If an attack can be properly planned and launched when a man’s mind is altered by the emotion of sadness; for example, a funeral or at the moment of great financial loss, or during illness, he is an easy and vulnerable target.”

  Sensei said, “If an attack can be properly planned and launched when a man’s mind is altered by the emotion and action of sexual arousal; for example, while watching a sexual display, pursuing sex, or having sex, he is an easy and vulnerable target.”

  Sensei said, “If an attack can be launched while a man’s mind is in a self-induced altered state; for example, while drinking alcohol, smoking opium, or using drugs, his defeat by any ninja is certain.”

  Sensei did not waste even one of his words on me. I listened. I understood. I locked them into my memory.

  After a half hour of talk, we went into action. I learned the art of the rope. Sensei instructed me on how to tie and bind a man in such a way that if a man tried to become untied, his own movements would cause him further injury instead of escape. It was deep.

  Sensei dragged out of his closet a life-sized dummy to demonstrate. I watched him tie it down, each precise move, loop, and pull. He did it twice. Then he asked me to tie up the dummy, in the same manner.

  As I got my chance, I replayed the process he used in my mind. It was as though I had Sensei’s fingers caught in the close-up of a powerful movie camera lens. I tied the dummy the same way I had seen Sensei tie it. My eyes were looking from the dummy to Sensei, from Sensei to the dummy. Yet, Sensei’s silence made me doubt whether I had done it correctly.

  Breaking his silent pause, Sensei asked, “What is the problem in this lesson?”

  I thought for a moment. I kept staring at the dummy, looking for mistakes in my method. After careful review, I was sure that I tied it perfectly. Still I paused.

  I admitted that I did not know the answer.

  Sensei answered for me, “The problem here is that a ninja must always expect the unexpected. Therefore, the enemy who you are tying down will not be a dummy.” Sensei pushed me with force, small hands, small man, still I fell from the force. It was my mind that was off guard.

  “Your enemy will be trying to fight you,” Sensei said, kicking me. I pulled my body out of his way. Yet, I was still on the floor at a disadvantage. “Your enemy will be trying to destroy you to free himself,” Sensei said, attacking. “He will not be still like this dummy. He will be moving and responding to your every move,” Sensei said, still striking me. Now I felt like the dummy. I got my head together to fight back against the master teacher.

  Within thirteen minutes he outfought me, had me down, constrained me, and then bound me to the chair.

  Then he smiled. “You made two major mistakes,” he said calmly, not even seeming like someone who had fought an opponent bigger and taller than himself for a prolonged amount of time. “First, you failed to survive my sneak attack. Panic can have fatal consequences. Panic shuts down your thought process and renders you useless.” He lifted up his teapot.

  “Second, you showed your opponent too much respect and it led to your defeat. When you fight, every time, you must think and move and fight to win.”

  He had me sit there tied up while he poured himself a second cup of tea.

  27

  HOOD CHICKS

  I was tight for the rest of the day. I had nobody to be mad at other than myself.

  So, I followed through on handling my business as usual.

  At 7:00 P.M. I showed up for a scheduled basketball practice on the outdoor court outside of the high school gym where we usually practice. I don
’t think Vega was worried too much about us sweating inside of the hot-ass gym. I don’t think he moved us outside to enjoy the spring breeze. By moving us outside, he put us under the pressure of performance for the random spectators who showed up to watch. No player minded getting barked on at practice in front of his teammates. But no player wanted to get barked on outside in front of the hood. I saw that it did cause a couple of our players to step up their effort and their game.

  Ever since the clocks were pushed forward by an hour for the spring season, the sunlight lasted much longer than it had during the winter months. That night at 9:00 P.M., right as the sky grey got overtaken by the blackness, the temperature dropped by ten degrees and she came running in with the night breeze. She crashed into the metal fence that surrounded the ball court and then whistled like a man. She caught everybody’s attention.

  “I wanna talk to you,” she said. Most of the players who were just finished packing up started heading over towards her. I stood still.

  “Not all y’all. Don’t even try it,” she said boldly. “He know who I’m talking about.” A couple of players looked back. Panama stepped up from the rear saying, “Who else but the team captain?” He started to move towards the fence where she was leaning now with her breasts pressed against the wires.

  “Panama,” I called out. “She’s looking for me, my bad,” I said. They all turned back around going on about their business. Practice was over now anyway.

  Walking over towards the fence, I asked her, “You looking for trouble?”

  She smiled and said, “I’m looking for Midnight.”

  “Why you always calling me?” I asked her.

  “Why you never calling me?” she asked. “I gave you my number.”

  “What would you have done if the rest of the team came to meet you at the fence? What then?” I asked her.

  “Then I would’ve waited for you to look out for me just like you did,” she said, smiling. “Besides, I got two legs. I would’ve ran. They would have to get around this fence first. They wouldn’ta never caught up with me. I’m fast. I would’ve dashed right down that side alley.” She pointed. “They don’t know that way. That’s my secret. Then I would’ve ended up right at my bedroom window.” She smiled.

  All I could do was laugh. She was so excited telling her little story to me.

  I walked her home because it was dark, she had a bag, and she had already drawn too much attention onto herself. I really couldn’t guarantee what Panama had in mind.

  “I know you got a girlfriend,” she said, walking.

  Before I could say anything she threw her hands over her two ears, closed her eyes and started saying, “No, no, no, don’t tell me. Don’t answer.” When she opened them up and noticed I wasn’t saying nothing she pulled her hands down.

  “You’re crazy,” I told her and meant it.

  “It’s okay because if you would’ve met me first, I know what would’ve happened,” she said, looking at me with a side glance.

  “What would’ve happened?” I asked her.

  “You know.” She smiled even harder.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You know!” She started jumping up and down in place then stomped her foot. “Instead of me looking for you, you would’ve been looking for me.” She struck a pose. I kept walking and carrying her bag.

  “If I stop walking you gotta stop walking too,” she said. “You don’t even know where my house is,” she said, challenging me now with both of her hands on her hips.

  “Yes I do,” I said, still facing forward. “You already told me.” I kept walking.

  I waited in the alley under the only ground level window. For two minutes I held her lightweight groceries, before she showed up. It was a dark narrow path between two four-story brownstones.

  I heard her hurried footsteps approaching. I was thinking she must’ve figured out that her temper tantrum didn’t work on me. I handed her the bag. I doubled back and disappeared. I could hear her calling out her phone number, “7-1-8-. . .”

  All I could do was laugh. This girl was nuts, but her little prank loosened me from my fury at my fighting failures of the day.

  Late night, I waited to hear the sound of Akemi’s voice on my voice mail. Out of nine business messages, not one was from her. I would’ve been satisfied hearing her say one word.

  Her silence wasn’t pushing me away. Every day I didn’t see or speak to her, my interest, thoughts, and feelings were just escalating.

  • • •

  Shower and a fresh cut, I cleaned up nice on Thursday. All brand new, I was wearing my suede Ralph Lauren dress shirt, Polo jeans and even cracked open a fresh pair of dark brown leather Lo boots with the gold buckle.

  I was going to The Palace, an elite hotel in Manhattan, where they dress the doormen up like fools, so the rich could be sure by looking at them, that they were definitely the servants.

  Fawzi was staying in this hotel for the next ten days, in a room that was actually an entire apartment. There was a kitchen, living room, a master bedroom, and three bathrooms. The apartment even had a separate doorbell that chimed.

  Following Umma’s instructions, I was delivering his new bride’s new dress, the one she would wear to the mosque for the signing of the marriage contract. I had the scented garment hanging and wrapped and nicely placed in a long silver garment bag.

  I took a taxi to the hotel to avoid having the garment tossed and crushed on an overcrowded morning train. I thought about how Fawzi, a Sudanese groom, was responsible to provide everything for his Sudanese bride, and I mean everything.

  I was to deliver the dress to him so that he could pre-sent it to the bride’s mother, along with each item they had already negotiated and agreed upon, including the jewelry. Monetary sums would also change hands from Fawzi’s father, to the bride’s father. Everything the bride received according to our traditions would become hers. It is not proper in Islam to take back anything a husband has granted to his wife in the contract. But I guess Fawzi was right in some small way, whatever he gave to his wife remained with him, because she would remain with him forever.

  I was relieved to hand the garment, in perfect condition, over to him.

  Afterwards, I had to hurry to collect deposits on two Umma Designs side orders which customers had placed with the understanding that because of the wedding account we were involved in they would have a longer wait than usual.

  While working, I ran across an odd little place called “The Helium Hub.” Since it looked like an interesting business with unique offerings, I walked up in there. I would at least collect a business card from them and drop off one of our cards as well.

  Inside, there were three walls covered with uninflated new balloons of every imaginable color. Every two inches of wall had a different color balloon sample pinned up.

  “How many colors?” I asked the lady up front.

  “We have 240 different colors. That’s three times the amount of colors offered in the deluxe Crayola crayon box. Each balloon is fifty cents except if you buy in bulk, which is an order of one hundred or more balloons. Then it’s twenty-five cents each.” She smiled.

  “One hundred balloons,” I repeated, skeptical.

  “You’d be surprised. Some businesses and events order tons of them. They make a plain place look exciting and women and children love them.”

  Looking around I figured they had to be selling something besides balloons to turn a real profit. Although I could see from the extremely small size of the space that the rent they were paying couldn’t be too much.

  “What else you selling?” I asked the lady.

  “Just balloons,” she answered. “But our balloons are filled with a special helium solution. The balloons from the other stores will die out in an hour or two. Ours will last for forty-eight hours or more,” she said.

  “Forty-eight hours?” I repeated.

  I ended up ordering one hundred balloons from their elite line, the psychedelic ones with t
he crazy colors that I knew she would like. They would match her strange stockings and tights. They cost double the price of the basic colors. There was also a twenty-five-dollar service fee for the short guy whose job was to pump ’em up. Then there was the twenty-five-dollar delivery charge to have the balloons delivered to New Jersey where Akemi was staying for the week. I was starting to see how the Helium Hub made their profit. But I didn’t care about the money. I wasn’t gonna walk around the city holding a bunch of balloons like some kind of clown. Yet, I grabbed the opportunity to do something special that she could feel. Once she received them, I would invite her to come out to the agid ceremony with me on Saturday. Umma wanted to meet her and Naja was going to be there too, so it meant the world to me.

  “Each balloon will be knotted and then tied with three colorful twisted ribbons,” the lady said, after collecting my information and my money and completing my receipt.

  “Would you like to write anything on the card? It’s complimentary with your delivery.” She pointed to the small card collection in her counter case.

  I chose a lavender-colored gift card and wrote inside.

  Akemi, I would like you to meet my family on this Saturday at five o’clock. If you say yes, I’ll come and get you from wherever you are and bring you back safely afterwards.

  Mayonaka

  I knew it would be her cousin reading the note aloud to her, or someone else in her family. So I wanted it to be short and simple and decent. Then, I would wait for her or someone in her family to give me a call and hopefully a favorable answer.

  In the evening, I showed up on the Deuce to meet with Chris and Ameer and their girls as promised. Forty-second Street was all lit up and bursting with people and tourists, same as it would be late into the night, same as it would be almost twenty-four hours a day. Our meet-up spot, the arcade, was three floors of fun for teens and tourists, and con men and pimps looking for teens and tourists. In New York, that was unavoidable. It just came with the territory.

  Chris was inside the picture booth behind the curtain with his girl. I recognized him by his kicks.